


Raven's Caw

by Snickfic



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 16:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18254018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic/pseuds/Snickfic
Summary: A long time ago, the Valkyrie used to call Heimdall to watch them take their pleasure in each other. Now there is only one Valkyrie left.





	Raven's Caw

She bests him, of course, every bout. Few indeed could hold out for long against a Valkyrie; Heimdall’s spent most of his last few millennia watching, centuries of peace punctuated by brief hours of crisis, and there is only so much training can accomplish under those conditions. So he finds himself once again on the mat, flat on his back. The Valkyrie— _It’s just Valkyrie now_ , she told him, but he still stumbles in his mind, from time to time—the Valkyrie bends over him, her eyes flashing, grinning as smug and bright as a sun. 

“Not bad,” she says. Heimdall’s watched many of her sessions now, with Thor and Loki and whatever able-bodied refugee wants to test their skill; he knows the measure of the praise she gives him. She offers him a hand and pulls him to his feet, as effortlessly as Thor would and with far less leverage. “Go again?”

He has bruises in two dozen places that will take hours to clear up, and there’s a ringing in his ear from when she clocked him with a kick to the side of the head hard enough to apologize for afterwards. _Out of practice_ , she said with a grimace, raising a number of questions Heimdall decided could wait. 

He’d go hours more and not regret a moment of it. “My apologies,” he says instead. “I’m on watch on the bridge, next.”

She makes a face. “Guess I should be in bed soon. These bloody shifts. You know on Sakaar I had my own bed? Nobody slept in it but me.” She pauses thoughtfully. “Well, you know. Except the people I wanted to sleep in it.”

There are a lot of things in that he could respond to. “Sleep well,” is all he says.

She gives him a long look, licking under her upper lip. She cut it against her teeth a while ago when he landed a punch—his last for several rounds. “We used to call for you. Me and my sisters. It was kind of a game, I guess.”

“I remember,” Heimdall says.

She nods to herself, coming to a decision. “I probably won’t go to sleep right away. You can watch, if you want.” She gives him a meaningful smirk and saunters away.

Well.

Heimdall takes two minutes in the chemical shower. The Grandmaster’s voice on loop, encouraging him to clean out all his special crevices, saves him from thinking too hard about anything else. He puts on his indoor leathers, and he reports to the bridge, relieving Loki of his post. Loki, ever unpredictable, reliably appears for every watch he’s given. Strange times indeed.

There is only Korg left, humming a song to himself as he surveys star charts. Heimdall takes his usual position at the wall and scouts the stars ahead. Then he casts his glance backwards, checking for any threats that might follow. All is well, for the moment. All is at peace. Finally, he surveys the ship, each person in it, sleeping and waking. Thor is snoring in his bunk, a welcome sight; he sleeps too little these days. Bruce is comparing notes with Hyra, their best remaining healer.

The Valkyrie is sitting on the bunk she shares in shifts with two other Asgardians. She is almost finished braiding her hair into a plait down her back. She wears nothing else.

She was correct: Heimdall has watched a great many people do a great many things, but an age has it been since his attention was invited like this. Not since the glory days of the Valkyries, when he was barely out of his apprenticeship.

She knew, perhaps, how long into his shift he would have the time to look her way. Now she lies back, smiling at the ceiling. She spreads her bent knees, feet braced against the mattress, and she puts her hand between her legs. She is unshaven there, untrimmed, the hair fine and curly and black. She slips two fingers just between her folds and strokes herself.

“Do you see me, Watcher?” she says softly. She seems unconcerned to receive no answer. Her lips part, her eyes squeezing shut as she runs her fingers up and down. She grunts: involuntary? A sound for him? But she is not putting on a show. She wedges her free hand behind her head and arches into her own touch, toes curling.

He would trace her ribs, if he could. He would put his mouth to her darkened nipples; perhaps he would rest his hand over the hand now rubbing tight circles against her blood-flushed nub.

But he is on the bridge, still and unobserved and aroused, and he can do nothing but keeping on watching. Her eyes fall shut as she continues her slow, deliberate exploration. She shrugs a little further down the bed, into her hand, pressing a finger into herself while her other hand tugs free of her head and drops to her clit. Her jaw tightens; her breath quickens. Her face screws into a grimace, and she strokes furiously for a second more, two, before falling back against her bunk, relaxed and spent.

She stretches out her trembling thighs. After a moment, she presses a finger farther between her legs. It’s slick and wet when she brings it to her mouth. She looks up and smirks at the ceiling, and she licks her finger clean. After a moment, the smirk falls away. She sits up and reaches for the blanket heaped at the end of the bunk. “That’s enough now,” she says, and rolls over, blanket tucked under her chin. “Meet me at the mats tomorrow, start of third shift, if you want to give it another go.”

Heimdall watches until her breaths even out. It doesn’t take long. Then he is left on the bridge, cock stiff, heat pooled uselessly in his belly. Korg is still poring over his charts and has begun to sing under his breath.

Heimdall discreetly adjusts himself and looks out to the stars. His thoughts drift to the Valkyries he remembers of old, the bringers of death who sent souls to Valhalla and amused themselves in the midst of their shared ecstasy by calling out his name. They were raucous and bloodthirsty and bold, a joyous, murderous flock.

It was a very long time ago.

\--

She is waiting there at the beginning of third shift, just as she said. Her back is to Heimdall as she instructs a young boy about his grip on the sword he’s holding—too big for him, perhaps the only weapon left to his family. And perhaps he’s the only one of his family left to wield it; there are many children in such straits.

But finally she turns, the last Valkryie, and waits for Heimdall to approach. She expresses no surprise to see him here, though there is only one way he could possibly have known to come so early. She lifts her chin and says, “Go again?”

And Heimdall will, as many times as she’s willing.


End file.
